


sugar, sugar

by redandgold



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, some blood (one punch) (not a pun on Japanese anime)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-26 02:31:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12049467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/pseuds/redandgold
Summary: Gary tries to make sugar rolls five times.





	sugar, sugar

**Author's Note:**

  * For [neyvenger (jjjat3am)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/gifts).



> \- Private fic exchange with Julija; the prompt I chose was 'burnt sugarloaf' buT I don't think 'sugarloaf' actually exists as a thing?? Unless it's American and part of this whole other world I am 0% privy to? So I substituted them for sugar rolls!  
> \- Thanks to [Sixponderous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sixponderous) as always for holding my hand and reading through and also deciding that drunk!Carra should come before punchy!Carra otherwise it'd probably have been super different and terrible  
> \- LOVE U LOTS JULIJA U KNOW THIS every time I come across zucchinis or hard boiled eggs I think of u and am thankful u exist in my life <333

Scholesy's fairly sure that if Gary doesn't stop pacing up and down, he'll wear a hole in the floor, fall through, and break his neck or something. Which he's not going to complain about all that much, because it'd save him having to deal with a shitload of problems.

How to seduce Scousers being top of that list, at the moment. Closely followed up by how to stop Gary Neville from attempting to seduce Scousers.

"You're sure about this," he says, in a tone that makes the world a momentarily scarier place.

"Well, I don't - " Gary throws his hands in the air. "When has me being sure about something ever stopped me from being a complete and utter twat?"

He has a point, to be fair. Scholesy remembers the sleepless nights of having to calm a mildly hysterical Becks down while simultaneously convincing Gary that going on strike was the worst idea since they signed Djemba-Djemba.

"Okay. You're a twat."

Gary pulls a face. "Thanks."

"But even the worst twats don't go around trying to get into the pants of their mortal enemies."

"Carra's my fri - "

"Don't even say it," Scholesy hisses, narrowing his eyes. " _I'm_ your friend. Even, I dunno, Roy bloody Hodgson is your friend. But not the bloke who spent twenty years trying to punch your lights out."

Gary throws him a dirty look. Scholesy's very glad it's just the standard dirty and not the ones he probably throws Carragher. "You're just jealous that he ranked Gerrard over you."

Scholesy folds his arms and huffs, but has to admit that he's right. There was also the time Carragher borrowed his pen and never returned it, but it's not like he's obsessed with his pens. Or anything.

"All right. Bake him something."

Gary blinks.

"What?"

"He likes baked shit. Like, uh. Sugar rolls. Those are always good. And they're always banging on about baked stuff being the way into a bloke's heart."

"What kind of crap have you been reading?"

"Oi. Don't talk about your brother's magazines like that."

"Why have you been reading Phil's crap?"

This is veering into unseemly territory and Scholesy valiantly attempts to retrieve the situation before it goes too far. "Listen. Neville. I told you what he likes. Now go and seduce him or whatever horrifyingly anti-Manc things you're dreaming of. Just please, god, never, ever tell me what they are."

There's a wistful look on Gary's face. "Do you remember after that West Brom game, I was saying something and he looked at me with such a big smile on his face and all I wanted to do was to - "

Scholesy shoves him out of the door and locks it, just to be sure.

 

 

 

Gary tries to make sugar rolls five times.

 

 

 

The first time doesn't even get past the post that is Phil and Scholesy. It doesn't even get into Phil's mouth, and Phil eats nearly everything. "Mate," Scholesy sniffs, staring suspiciously at the way the burnt sugar has crystallised and turned almost pitch black. "Don't you ever watch Masterchef? It's better not to serve anything at all than serve something less appetising than Giggsy's longstanding offer of Big Sausages."

"Is it really that bad?" Gary whines, looking at Phil for support. Phil is making the exact face that :< was based on.

"I think you ought to stick to commentary, Gary," Phil says, in that earnest way he does when he has to say something bad but doesn't want to piss anyone off, so tries to be as eager and enthusiastic for the criticism as possible, which somehow makes everything worse.

Scholesy's still picking at it like a vulture picks at the bones of dead cowboys in a Sergio Leone movie. "I guess if you close your eyes and try to ignore the the smell of melted tyre it isn't that bad."

"D'you think it's melted tyre?" Phil asks, with a modicum of interest completely and utterly inappropriate for the situation at hand. "I thought it was more like chicken when you drop it directly onto the stove, myself."

"This was a terrible idea," Gary moans. "Why can't I just be normal and tell him I like him straight off the bat?"

"Because you're English," says Scholesy, with the sage intonations of someone afflicted by the same disease.

 

 

 

The second time isn't as bad an effort as it could have been; the rolls are slightly squished and the sugar is slightly burnt, but given the extent of Gary's culinary skills, the results are like if Petr Cech took on a Phil Collins drum solo and succeeded.

Full of trepidation and with an emphasis very much on flight instead of fight, Gary carts his sugar rolls into the studio and attempts to wedge them under Jamie's seat. He'd purposely arrived two hours earlier, hoping that at least only Jamie would be around to see the embarrassment wedged as firmly onto his face as that unfortunately stubborn line between his eyebrows.

Just as he's standing up, reasonably pleased with his handiwork, there's a noise at the door and he spins around, trembling with a nervousness usually only associated with nine-year-olds doing a class presentation for the first time.

"Jamie," he squeaks.

Jamie looks at him with much amusement. "What's up, old man," he says.

The problem with sky sports is that they have a tendency to hire people with the same names.

"That's not for you," Gary ventures, if by 'ventures' he means 'raises his voice higher and higher until it sounds like a jet plane taking off'.

Jamie Redknapp has gotten the box out from under the seat and is peering at it with marked interest. Of course Phil 'Gary you cannot give your crush home-baked items in an old Sainsbury's plastic bag!!!' Neville had to intervene and had dragged a very unwilling Scholesy down to Ryman's. Which meant that the box Redders is holding is a very cute retro lunchbox type with a word spelled out in scrapbook bubble letters on the front.

**J A M I E**

"It says Jamie," Redders says.

"I didn't know you could read," Gary retorts, before he can help himself. That's not going to help his situation in the least. Redders pulls a face and opens it, delighted.

"Food!"

"No!"

"Yes!"

Adding to the list of things that Gary didn't know about Jamie Redknapp is that he can, apparently, eat as much as any given Spanish football player can dive, and within two seconds he's got three sugar rolls stuffed into his mouth.

"These are excellent!" he mumbles far too cheerfully, while Gary stews and wonders how Scholesy manages to repress this manic urge to murder someone all of the time. "Did you make these?"

"You weren't supposed to have them," Gary whines. "I thought you lot were always late."

Redders's eyes widen.

"Was this meant for - _Carra_?"

Gary squirms in his seat. Redders is actually cackling.

"Oi, Thierry - c'mere, Gary's got a great story for us. And he's even made sugar rolls for you to eat while he's telling it."

Thierry pokes his head around the doorframe, eyebrows raised.

Gary hopes that he still has a shovel lying around somewhere in his shed, to make the process of digging a hole and burying himself in it a lot easier.

 

 

 

The third time Gary bakes sugar rolls he almost gets away with it, too, if it hadn't been for some meddling kids.

It's a perfect, meticulous plan, mapped out over two A3 sheets of paper and sixteen coloured markers. (Scholesy had come in once, seen the goings on, and walked straight out again while Gary yelled plaintively after him to search for Contingency Provision 2B.) Gary knows Jamie like the back of his hand, which means a) he's a bit of a stalker, but more importantly, b) he has the exact moment to corner Jamie.

**Gary Neville's Very Clever Plan of Things**

Premise 1: There are four places he might corner Jamie: at work, in the pub, in the car, or at home.  
Premise 2: Jamie might have someone over (i.e. Stevie, because he has no other friends), so it's not wise to attack him at home.  
Premise 3: There are always people around at work or in the pub.  
Conclusion 1: He must be cornered in the car.

Premise 1: Jamie always goes for a pint after Monday Night Football.  
Premise 2: Jamie has two sets of car keys, one in his pocket and one in his coat pocket, in case he forgets either one.  
Premise 3: Jamie always hangs his coat on the back of his chair when he's having a pint.  
Conclusion 2: Steal the keys in the coat pocket and wait for him in the car.

"Mate," says perennial car keys thief Paul Scholes. Gary finds his lack of faith...disturbing.

"It'd better be a 'mate, that's an excellent idea, let me teach you how to steal people's shit and never give it back' kind of mate."

"No, it's a 'mate, what the fuck, are you on drugs' kind of mate."

"He's on drugs!" Phil yells from the kitchen, which is the last place in the house he's most likely to be, really. "The drug of love!"

Gary calls Phil over just so that he can slam the door shut in his face.

 

He does, against all odds, succeed in stealing Jamie's car keys, and he does, against all odds, manage to find Jamie's car and squeeze himself into the passenger seat. He might have needed a few drinks himself to muster up this much courage. Now all he has to do is wait.

And wait.

And -

And it's getting to one in the morning when his phone startles him into waking up from an unceremonious puddle of drool on Jamie's car seat.

**Carra: Whered u go mate**

_Where'd YOU go,_ Gary texts back furiously, his panic warning system immediately elevated to Category 5: Everything Is Ruined. At the same time he fires something off to Scholesy along the lines of _LKDSJFLKSHFEWUREWKLKJF._ He's not young enough to call it keysmashing, but the same I-want-to-throw-myself-out-a-window sentiment is there.

 **Carra: at redders!!!** ****  
**Carra: too drunk 2 drive** ****  
**Carra: r u still at pub??** **  
** **Carra: tell em i'll pick up my car tmr thx**

Gary lowers his head until it's pressed into the steering wheel, and the car lets out a long, mournful horn. His phone buzzes again.

**Scholesy Scholesy: Phil says if you're still at the pub to buy him back a pasty**

 

 

 

The fourth time Gary bakes sugar rolls it _hurts_ , and Jamie's boxing hobby doesn't help this in any way, either.

Because the Very Clever Plan had not been quite so clever after all, Gary decides to go quite the other way, which means acquiring several bottles of alcohol and doing the first thing that come to mind. "You should just go to his house," Phil says brightly. "Me and Scholesy'll head Stevie off. We don't mind, do we?"

" _You_ don't mind," Scholesy mutters darkly. " _You_ don't get slagged off to boost his ego in every youtube comment."

"That's because he's not good enough to be," Gary points out, ever the supportive brother.

Phil makes a face and grabs Scholesy's hand, making to drag him out of the house. "C'mon, Scholesy, it's not that bad. I'll buy you sweets later, all right?"

While not quite satisfied by the promise, Scholesy is nevertheless mollified enough to follow Phil without biting his hand off, which leaves Gary with his several bottles of alcohol, Jamie's home address, and a reckless streak he hasn't had since the Simon Brown days of December 1995.

Jamie doesn't have the same impressive gate that Gary has; the middle-of-nowhereness that is Bootle seems to be enough insulation. Gary stuffs his box of sugar rolls, now honed to near perfection, into the bushes near Jamie's driveway and crouches down alongside them.

He's forty years old. He's allowed to do as many jumpscares as he well bloody likes.

 **Phil New Mob: We're with them** ****  
**Phil New Mob: Jamie's coming back!!** **  
** **Phil New Mob: Don't freak him out tho Scholesy said**

 _Ok_ , Gary texts back, for some reason not finding the 'Scholesy said' bit the least bit suspicious. _Will keep u updated_

It isn't too long before Gary hears a car trundle into the driveway. He hopes, slightly vindictively, that Jamie had a hard time cleaning all that drool up. There's a door slamming and harried footsteps echo towards the porch area. Gary counts under his breath.

On a wholly arbitrary _three_ he jumps out of the bushes and two things happen:

  1. he registers hearing a very high-pitched, helium balloon-esque squeal, and
  2. there's a bright, searing pain in his nose.



He staggers back, blindsided, and is only saved from hitting the floor by the sudden appearance of a very panic-stricken Jamie Carragher, who cradles Gary's head in his arms and alternates between screaming at him and mumbling the word 'fuck' many times.

"Jesus," Gary groans, lifting a hand to poke at his nose.

"What the _fuck_ , Neville," Jamie is saying. He's still got one arm under Gary's neck and he's got the other yanking the hem of his shirt up to Gary's nose, trying to stop the blood. "How the fuck - listen, I'm _sorry_ , but why the fuck were you hiding in my fucking bushes?"

"I thought it'd be funny," Gary snaps, in equal parts annoyed with himself and more embarrassed than any West Brom game. "Didn't expect you to fucking deck me."

"Of course I'd fucking deck you," Jamie whines with much exasperation. "Aren't you the one who's always making jokes about burglars and Scousers? I'm not going to get my shit stolen, am I? And Scholes said he saw someone lurking about me place on the way, so I came back to check - "

"I'mgonnakillhim," Gary moans, his voice getting steadily clogged up both by the blood as well as the fact that he was in very comfortable proximity to Jamie.

"God. Okay. Can you walk? I have, I dunno, ice inside and stuff - "

Gary would like to note here that the first time he ever stepped foot in Casa Carragher was, therefore, a result of being invited, and not the result of being some madcap stalker who broke into people's houses and cars for no reason.

He sprawls across the sofa, still with his head tilted back, while Jamie makes a beeline for the ice in the fridge. It's a nice place, Gary thinks woozily, blinking as he takes in the high ceilings and glass doors. Add 'surprising tastefulness' to the things he loves about Jamie.

Wrong word. He gulps.

"I don't think it's broken," Jamie squeaks, running back with ice wrapped in cloth and a roll of bandages Gary isn't even sure how he's going to use. "But we can go to the hospital if you really want to check. God your friends are going to kill me - "

Gary doesn't know if he's hallucinating, but somehow Jamie seems to have chosen to stand very close to the end of the sofa. As it is, Gary lying down has brought him into line with a particular area of Jamie's that he feels like he really shouldn't be be in line with.

"It's easier for me if I sit down, you idiot," Jamie says patiently, although Gary notes with interest that his face is a little pink.

"Oh. Yeah."

He sits up a bit to let Jamie slide in, and then puts his head back down. In Jamie's lap. In his house. While bleeding.

Jamie prods at his nose while cleaning it up and it twinges, but that's nothing compared to the riot going on in Gary's stomach, or the pleasant buzz of domesticity that filters through his brain. Laps this comfortable should be illegal.

"Why the fuck were you hiding outside, anyway?" Jamie asks, scrunching his face up as he bends down close to examine Gary's nose.

"I was going to give you sugar rolls," Gary manages to mumble. Jamie being this near makes it very hard for him to concentrate, and focus is not the only thing that's hard.

Jamie raises an eyebrow. "What for? Trying to poison Scousers now?"

"I baked them."

If Gary hoped that Jamie would be extremely touched by the gesture and lean in for a kiss he is sorely disappointed. Jamie bursts into a peal of laughter that, under the circumstances, is very discouraging.

"You? Baking?" He's wheezing at this point, which winds Gary up to no end. "Whatever for? Joining the Girl Guides? Starting a Be Kind to Scousers campaign? When are you going for Bake Off?"

"Shut up, you plum," Gary snipes, shifting so that he can give Jamie a proper death stare. Jamie makes a weird, involuntary noise as he moves, and it's something that Gary doesn't want to think about. "I wanted you to like me, all right? And Phil's magazine said the way to a bloke's heart is baking, and all that, and - "

"Wait," Jamie interrupts, looking at him strange. The weight of his hand presses against Gary's nose. "What d'you mean 'like me'? I do like you."

"Not in that way," Gary says exasperatedly. "I mean, y'know - not _friends_. Not. Just friends."

They stare at each other for a very long time.

"Do you mean like this, then," Jamie says, his voice barely above a whisper, and leans down to kiss Gary.

It's not the best of first kisses; there's blood on Gary's face and his nose bumps into Jamie's cheek and it's kind of an awkward angle, but Jamie's lips are chapped and warm against his own.

They break apart, breathing a little hard. Jamie's face is flushed and his eyes are trained very purposely on the carpet beneath the sofa but his hand hasn't left its position on Gary's neck.

"Kind of," Gary breathes, his throat suddenly very dry. "But not quite. I can explain better."

This time he sits up to meet Jamie halfway, puts his hand behind Jamie's head to pull him in. Jamie grins a little and presses into Gary's chest, reaching a hungry hand under his shirt. Gary makes a strangled noise at the touch of Jamie's fingers all hot and searching.

"I do like you, Gary Neville," he repeats, mumbling the words against Gary's skin even as he slips downwards, Gary trying his best to hold back an embarrassing moan. "I like you a lot."

"Good," Gary manages to mumble, arching his back at every touch. "I'm glad I didn't drool in your car for nothing."

" _Wait._ " Jamie snaps back up and eyeballs Gary, his face creasing into a comical frown. It's very endearing, in all honesty. "That was you? Jesus, Neville, those are proper leather seats, do you have any idea how hard they are to clean - "

Gary laughs. "Shut up, Carragher," he says. "You talk too much." And he tugs on Jamie's tie to pull him down again, presses his lips to Jamie's temple, where brown met grey.

 

 

 

The fifth time Gary bakes sugar rolls it's really more for his pride than anything else.

"After all the trouble I've been through you'd better at least give them a shot," he warns Jamie, who's sat in the kitchen reading some Liverpool book (Gary tried very hard to ban anything remotely related to Liverpool from entering his house, but Jamie was adamant that Gary would have to 'take him as he was', so Gary's resolved to bring Sir Alex the next time he goes to visit).

Jamie looks up from his book and squints at Gary. "What made you think that baking me sugar rolls would be a good way to woo me, anyhow?"

"First off, I did not woo you," Gary says primly, putting the plate of fresh, now-expert sugar rolls in front of Jamie. "I'm not a relic from the nineteenth century. Secondly, Scholesy said you liked sugar rolls, and Phil's magazine was all 'yes bake them stuff'."

"I won't argue with Phil's magazine," Jamie concedes, "but I don't actually like sugar rolls."

Gary blinks.

"What?"

"I mean, if you were gonna bake things, you could've baked biscuits or cakes or summat. Love me a good Victoria sponge."

"But Scholesy said - "

"Y'know, that's the weird bit." Jamie crinkles his face. "I could've sworn I told Scholes this before, when we were talking about favourite foods and your pasties, so he ought to have known. Unless it's another of his precious wind-ups."

"But I don't - " Gary's thinking back to how all of his sugar rolls have mysteriously disappeared, even the ones he'd left outside Jamie's house That Night; he'd always assumed Jamie had just taken them and gorged, except this didn't seem to be the case. "- who's been eating all of them, then?"

Something seems to click in Jamie's brain and he raises his eyes to meet Gary's, a look of annoyance mixed with grudging admiration crossing his face. "You know what Scholes told me his favourite food was?"

Gary purses his lips. "No way."

Jamie nods solemnly.

There's a buzz in Gary's pocket. Gary takes out his phone and consoles himself with the fact that the plan did, at least, theoretically work. Even if the plan hadn't actually been his at all.

**Scholesy Scholesy: let me know when you start banging so that I can come by and pick up the rolls**

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> \- Peter Cech [actually plays the drums](http://www.teamtalk.com/news/ten-footballers-with-surprising-side-interests)  
> \- Gary saves his contacts with the [best names](https://68.media.tumblr.com/539306d775062fc148b5a6a93e95675e/tumblr_oudy0eiQvA1royi4ro2_r1_1280.jpg) (no, no one knows why Scholesy Scholesy is genuinely a thing - maybe it's an inside joke on Neville Neville? So good they had to name him twice? _Who knows_ )  
>  \- Scholesy did use to steal Gary's car keys and hide them places so that he couldn't go home...anything you'd like to share with the class  
> \- Ahh, the good old Simon Brown days of December 1995, where Gaz had a few pints of K Cider, passed out in front of a Chinese takeout, and woke up in hospital :')  
> \- Title from the song [Sugar Sugar](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g47K7V7Ub6w) by technically the Archies; it's actually a very carraville fluff song ngl  
> \- Thanks for reading!


End file.
